Resurgam
by Parnassus
Summary: Cal's been back a little over a month. A glimpse into a bad night after his escape from Tumulus.


**SUMMARY: Cal's only been back from Tumulus a little over a month. A glimpse into what a night might've been like for the brothers following Cal's escape.**

 **WARNINGS: Dark themes and unseemly language. The usual. **

**A/N: Making a comeback with some old fashioned h/c...and the Leandros brothers are the victims, (gi-hehe). It might be a bit much but I don't really care :) **

* * *

Most days, it's not so bad.

I can function like any normal human - or otherwise - with PTSD.

But that's during the day. Nighttime is another ball game entirely.

Like tonight. Tonight's bad…

The smell hits before anything else. There's nothing quite like a toxic cocktail of rotting death and noxious fear born of hopelessness.

I try to breathe through my nose and panic because I can't. The air is thick and cloying with the scent of blood. I can't see. Not a single damn thing. But I can hear. Vile hisses, inhuman shrieks and screaming laughter echoing around me, crawling beneath my skin; a demonic cacophony advertising your Hell stay-cation.

Fingers, cold as blue fire, brush against my cheek, nicking the curve of my jaw, drawing crimson at the last second because they're only playing.

 _"Here to stay, baby boy."_

 _Fuck_. Its breath is salty sweet, pungent with the lingering taste of raw flesh… someone who wasn't supposed to be a corpse yet.

 _"They are not worthy of you. They will never be. You belong to us."_

Icy lips lick greedily over mine as fetid breath seeps into my mouth, clogging my throat with a bloody kiss.

 _"Soon. You will remember. Soon you will come back to play."_

Paralyzed, I can't do anything as that voice summons the others and together they hiss blood-soaked promises until I can't distinguish one from the other.

I can't move, but I can scream. So that's exactly what I do. Scream until the only voice I can hear is my own, garbled and inhuman, tearing my throat like shards of glass across an ice rink.

I reach out, through the fiery cold and all-consuming terror, my fingers close, catch on nothing… _there's nothing_ …

Rebelling sensations and bloody instincts and nothing seems real anymore. There's nothing to hold onto.

I can't breathe.

Panic surges, choking off the air from my lungs. I'm vaguely aware of lying on my side, gasping like a fish out of water, desperate for a breath. Damp cloth tangles between my fingers.

I jolt awake, inexplicably sick to my stomach and drenched, sticky with sweat. No, not just sweat. After a confused moment, a hoarse sob tears out of my throat as I reach weakly to grab at my crotch. My sweatpants are soaked. _Oh, fuck…oh, no._

I _did not_ just fucking wet the bed.

And then, suddenly, there's solid warmth pressing against my back, and I can't help shuddering against the heat. It feels so good. I press back because I have nowhere else to go, nowhere to hide…and because I'm really fucking cold.

Something else filters through the chaos battling for dominance in my head. Familiar. Like honey dripping over a steel blade. I know that sound…

I follow it up.

"Cal? Hey…"

The words are slurred and heavy, but his voice is what I finally grasp onto. Rich and soothing and coaxing me back. A warm palm rubbing slow circles over my heaving stomach.

I try to get up and dry lips press against the nape of my neck as a solid arm wraps around me, pulling me tighter against the warmth. Instinctively, I jerk away. My cheeks are wet and hot.

I'm crying. No, not crying – sobbing. Bawling my goddamn eyes out. Maybe that's why I can't fucking breathe. The air stutters in my chest before shoving up my throat in violent exhalations of snot and paralyzing panic.

Niko's arm tightens around my waist, warm and protective. He nuzzles his nose between my shoulder blades, sighing in his sleep. I don't have the energy to push him off.

He stays with me most nights. I need him - all the time. His presence is a necessity for my detached sanity. It's unspoken, but he knows. Just like he always knows everything. Just like I know he can't deal with leaving me alone after what happened. Just like I need him to be close, he needs to know I'm not going anywhere.

"Nik," I whimper into my pillow, not caring how pathetic I sound.

And there's that steady, unyielding presence, pressing harder against my back, arm hugging around my stomach, urging me closer. I choke, cough and curl into the embrace.

I can't remember why I'm crying. I can't remember why I was screaming underwater only moments ago and my lungs stopped working. Suddenly, I'm being flipped around and he's burying my head against his chest. I give up and burrow into him like a hibernating gopher, wait for the world to stop spinning.

His arms are strong and solid, encircling me and holding me together because I'm close to falling apart. _Real. He's real._ I hold on to that.

"Shh," Niko gently shushes because I can't get my fucking sobbing under control.

"Sorry," I slur, blinking persistent goddamn tears out of my eyelashes.

I turn away from him and try to detangle from the damp sheets. He immediately scoots closer, heavy and drowsy, legs tangling with mine.

"Cal?" His voice is slow, thick with sleep.

I feel his hips shift a little against my back, feel him pushing up on his elbow to get a better look at my face. After a moment, I feel his breath against my skin as he slurs in a sleep-drunken whisper.

"Why's the bed…?"

He cuts himself off, still mostly asleep, but becoming more alert as the seconds slip away. Realization crosses his face.

This isn't the first time it's happened. But every time it does, every time I lose control, the guilt quadruples in ferocity.

Without even realizing it, my mind begins skittering frantically for an answer. I spilled a cup of water, I was sweating buckets, there's a goddamn hole in the roof. But even as I search for some sort of explanation, the sharp stench of ammonia assaults my senses. The smell pushes my unsettled stomach over the edge. I clench my lips closed as acid shoots up my throat.

Suddenly, I taste salty-sweet flesh and the bite of tangy blood coiling like poison in my mouth. I remember the tear of tender flesh and adrenaline soaking through my pores, burning like acid. Saliva pools in my mouth as I struggle to contain the foulness slithering up from my soul.

"Cal," my brother turns me over again, worry etching lines along his forehead. He cups a palm around my neck, rubbing his thumb along the base of my neck. The pressure grounds me a little.

I lean my forehead into his chest, shaking my head. Before I can stop it, a sick burp slides up my throat and I muffle it into my brother's neck. When I start retching, my nose bumps against Niko's collarbone.

"Nik," I gag weakly. "Let go."

He's up in an instant, swiftly hoisting me over the edge of the mattress, familiar with what's become routine.

I'm immediately retching over the side, brutal and unproductive as saliva drips over my bottom lip. I feel Niko position himself behind without a word, spreading his legs on either side of me as he loops an arm around my chest, holding me steady. His free hand cups my forehead, brushing sweaty hair from my face.

Before I can warn him to get the hell off, I lurch, heaving violently. Bile rushes up my throat, leaking through my clenched teeth and dribbling onto the unsuspecting rug. A wave of warm vomit swiftly follows. I gag a few more times, spitting up the rest on the carpet.

"Easy," Niko breathes behind me, voice calm and steady as he moves his hand down to press a calloused palm against my contracting belly. I relax against him, craving the contact and his warmth.

"Fuck," I gasp, wishing like hell I'd made it to the sanctuary of the bathroom. Niko doesn't say anything, just keeps massaging my stomach.

I grip desperately onto the hand resting against my middle, using it to anchor myself. Another sick belch bubbles up my throat, bringing with it more mouthfuls of bile. I can't lean away in time and the mess drips down my front and Niko's forearm. Saliva clings stubbornly to my chin as I whimper a garbled string of apologies.

Niko's long fingers tangle in my hair as he continues holding my head up. I collapse back against him, utterly drained. He rubs a while longer, soothing my abused stomach muscles into submission, completely ignoring the fact that he's covered in my puke.

"You're okay," his voice is rough with sleep, grave with concern. "Settle down, little brother."

I shudder against him, too exhausted to pull away. Apparently, crying is still an option. Tears leak down my cheeks and I can't help feeling as if I ought to be discarded like a bag of garbage.

Niko carefully leans me over his arm so he can peel off his t-shirt, sacrificing it to wipe the mess off my face. I burp softly into the fabric, choking on the lingering bile while he holds the bunched cloth over my mouth, insuring any other fluids I let fly won't escape.

"Okay?" he inquires, free hand moving down my back in a slow arc while I finish hacking up my insides.

He isn't simply asking if I still feel sick. He's asking if I'm back - all there - ready to face our shitty reality or not. Whatever I decide, Niko will be there to give me whatever I need. More time…an ass-kicking…chamomile-fucking-tea…

I snort bitterly at his loaded, Freud-wouldn't-touch-it-with-a-ten-foot-pole question, reaching up to swipe at my leaking face instead of answering. I press his t-shirt against my mouth again, breathing in his scent. It centers me, calms my roiled senses.

"Take your time," Niko says, hand moving back down my back, then up again in a practiced, gentle rhythm.

His reassurance triggers a fresh bout of blubbering and all of a sudden I'm back to the waterworks. I hiccup a few times and sniff, trying to get my stupid body under some semblance of control. Niko frowns like I've finally jumped off the deep end of the peer.

He pushes the gross mess of damp hair out of my face and turns me around so we're facing each other, squaring off on the bed. I draw my knees up against my chest so I can hug something and Niko leans forward to sit on his.

I wipe my nose once more with his soiled shirt and then hand it back to him. He wipes off his arm and tosses it on the floor. Neither of us says anything. I pick idly at a thread hanging off his pajama pants.

"Should we talk?" he finally asks, giving me permission even though he knows it's not necessary.

I swallow, shake my head, pulling the wayward thread free and discarding it. Absently, I reach up to pull at my hair instead.

"Don't," Niko gently admonishes. "Don't do that." He places his hand over my twitchy fingers.

Panic bubbles up again. With hair pulling denied my hands have no idea what the fuck to do. I jerk away and wring them out because they've started shaking again.

A hoarse sob rips from my throat, forcing its way up and out. I let my head fall between the crook in his shoulder, cheek flush against his chest as he supports me. Running theme of this miserable goddamn evening.

"All right," he whispers, sounding shaky and tired. I don't blame him. I'm horribly conscious of my damp sweatpants, even more so than the vomit decorating the shaggy carpet below us. I move a hand down to cup myself, as if hiding the obvious will make it go away.

"Cal," he pulls me closer. "It's all right. I'm not angry."

I hiccup against his shoulder.

"This is not your fault."

Everything he says is making it worse. In addition to the spit and puke running down my chin, I can add piss to my display of shame. Yay, me.

"Come on," Niko says, pulling me off the bed like it's no big deal. He leads me towards the bathroom and sits me down on the closed toilet seat while he turns on the shower faucet.

"Do you still feel like you're going to be sick?"

I shake my head. He nods and brushes a few more stubborn strands out of my face.

"We'll get cleaned up and then we'll get some sleep."

He says it like he's to blame, like it's not so bad and he'll fix it and we'll be all right. Always falling down the rabbit hole together.

Always with the _we_.

Yeah, Freud would run home screaming to mommy before touching our issues with a _thousand_ -fucking-foot pole.

"Okay?" he asks again as he runs a warm cloth over my lips and down my neck.

I give a slight nod, once again dropping my forehead against his convenient shoulder.

He's so warm.

"Okay."

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 **END**

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 **\- I may or may not have been a little drunk when I wrote this. I apologize for any grammatical mistakes that may have slipped past.**


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